When I walk, lonely, through the black alleyways,
The city is as silent as if no one lived there;
Only from the distance water rushes,
And the pale moon moves across the heavens.

I remain standing before that house
In which the dear, dear beloved lives,
Who doesn't know that her faithful one must travel far away,
As mute and full of sorrow as the pale moon.

For a long time I stretch my arms yearningly
Toward the dear, dear beloved,
And now I say: "Farewell, you alleyways!
Farewell, you quiet, quiet house!

And you little chamber high up there in the house,
Toward which often my warm heart swelled,
And you little window, from out of which my beloved looked,
And you door, from out of which she passed, farewell!"

When with trepidation I now walk toward the old city walls,
Often looking behind me with tearwet eyes,
The watchman locks the gate behind me,
Not knowing that my heart remained behind.